The others laughed and agreed.
“And stoke that fire up to a thousand. I want nothing left to chance; not a trace of Little's head or privates or limbs or bones is to be left. Only ashes.” The second bag, containing Little's private parts, his other leg, and his two arms, was tossed into the inferno. The flames spit out at the men surrounding the furnace as the feeder began shoveling more coal into the mix.
The dark dungeon was alight with a warm glow, and this glow filled the small ministry, who together began a mantra: “Helsinger… Helsinger… Helsinger… sing. Sing for me… sing for we… We provide you with this demonic and foul creature. Banish him forever to the pit. We do your bidding, our God…”
“Some things you can't do on-line,” muttered their leader through clenched teeth.
Lucas was already late for roll call, and he knew he'd be in trouble with Sergeant Kelton, because Lucas's absence had caused a gaping hole in Stanley Kelton's log entry, and Stan didn't like big holes in his little square boxes. However, since he was already late, he swung by Renquist Laboratories, Inc., an independent biochemical and DNA lab in downtown Houston.
He walked in with the two Waterford crystal goblets in their cellophane wraps, each labeled with dated evidence labels which he had snatched from his detective's kit at home. They looked official enough, and he signed as Det. James Pardee, giving them a number where he couldn't possibly be reached, since it was the number for the Houston Rockets ticket office. His plan was to check back with them hourly until they had some results for him, so he would be doing the calling.
“Where is your paperwork on this?” asked the clerk.
“It'll be coming.”
“Coming? We need it with the item to be analyzed.”
“It's forthcoming. My partner'll bring it over this afternoon. Trust me.”
“This is highly irregular.”
“I didn't want to waste any time.”
“We'll at the very least have to tag it.” She typed up a label and placed it over the plastic covering each goblet. 'There's no way I can assure you that these items, without the proper paperwork, will not be lost in the… along the system here. You'll have to sign here to release the items into our custody and sign this waiver form, which relieves Renquist of any responsibility for loss or damage.”
“Understood.” He signed everything as James Pardee.
“Then the City of Houston Police Department precinct number that will be paying for these tests?”
“The Twenty-second Precinct,” he replied, giving them Amelford and Pardee's precinct number. “Paper's on its way; you'll get paid.”
She stared back at him, an owl of a woman, her glasses larger than her face. “All right, Detective-ahh-Pardee. We'll begin to process your request, but without the paperwork, it could get held up. I warn you in advance.”
“It's been a while since I've done this. Can you give me the blank forms? Maybe I can speed up the process at our end if I have them.”
She frowned and her eyes sent shards into him, but finally she relented, nodded, thinking this a sound idea, and with the speed of a Musketeer whipping out a sword, she presented the forms to him.
They exchanged pleasantries and Lucas was on his way, the staid clerk staring suspiciously after him, marking him.
He could feel her eyes on him all the way out the door.
As soon as Lucas stepped inside the precinct house, Stan Kelton was on him like a tick, asking him, “Mister, who do you think you are? Mister, what gives you the right to waltz in and out of here anytime you feel like? Mister, tell me this: What rank are you, mister?” Kelton's eyes grew ablaze.
Kelton never called an officer an officer when he was angry with the officer.
Lawrence burst forth from his office, shouting for Stonecoat to come into his sanctuary immediately. He'd obviously heard Kelton dressing him down, and now it appeared Lawrence wanted the privilege himself.
“Sorry, Sarge,” said Lucas. “You'll have to get in line.”
“Now,” ordered Lawrence.
When Lucas stepped through the door and saw Meredyth, he assumed that Dr. Sanger was once more driving Lawrence up the wall. But Commander Andrew Bryce, seated at Lawrence's desk, suddenly shredded Lucas's assumptions when he held up a police fax alert, saying, “I got this on my machine this morning.”
“What is it?”
“Some disturbing news out of Oregon, a carbon copy killing in the style of our Judge Mootry. Some poor slob named Little, Timothy Little.”
Stonecoat stared at the fax and then across at Meredyth. “Arrows?”
“Two recovered at the scene this time,” she replied.
“And the body?”
“One torso, clothes and all identity taken off, along with arms, legs, head and private parts,” began Commander Bryce, gritting his teeth and shaking his head. “And damned if this isn't beginning to make us look a bit bad, gentlemen, Dr. Sanger. And since it appears you, Dr. Sanger, have shown a hell of a lot more initiative and gumption than some people around here”-he viciously raked Lawrence with his eyes-”I'm having Phil here send you up to this place… Medford, Oregon, to have a look. And as for you, Stonecoat, or should we call you Jack? Jack Plumber?”
“Sir? Plumber, sir?” Lucas feigned ignorance.
“We got a pretty good description on the intruder at the Mootry crime scene, Officer Stonecoat. I don't think we need to play games, do you?”
“Well, sir… no, sir,” stammered Lucas, unsure what to say next.
“At any rate, what we have up north may just be one of those damned copycat things or…”
“Or the same guy at work,” Meredyth eagerly finished for Bryce.
Captain Lawrence interrupted. “Commander Bryce seems to feel that we should send someone up to investigate, Stonecoat, and he suggested that it be you. I have to say, I haven't approved of the way you and Dr. Sanger have gone about this, and I certainly wouldn't send you two to cover traffic at the rodeo, but-”
“But, hell, Phil,” cried Bryce. “You didn't think there was much to this serial killer conspiracy thing. What'd you call it, a cum laude conspiracy angle that Dr. Sanger has put together with earlier cases from the Cold Files, and now this thing in Oregon. Hell, man, it puts a whole new kink into the starch.” Andrew Bryce was boiling over, filling the room with his large, commanding form. He had sharp gray eyes, flinty and hard. Lucas thought him direct and energetic and a leader of men. He liked him. “Now, I want you, Stonecoat, to accompany Dr. Sanger to Medford. See what the two of you can find out up there. See if it has any bearing on us here.”
“You want me to go have a look at what they've got in Oregon?” He wondered why the brass were being so generous to make such an offer. Did they expect it to be a wild-goose chase? Did they expect, even want Lucas to fail along with Dr. Sanger on this?
“Well, sir, if you want me to go, then I'm on my way.” He thought of the crystal goblets and cringed inside.
“Good, then it's settled. Dr. Sanger, Officer Stonecoat, there's a military transport waiting for you at Houston Intercontinental Airport. Pack a bag out of your locker and be on your way,” Commander Bryce replied. “They won't hold on to this guy Little's body long up there. They've already held off a day, trying to decide what in hell they've got. Apparently, they've got their hands more than full and haven't had much experience with such problems in the past. For that matter, neither have we.”
Meredyth added, “They contacted VICAP, reported what they had to the FBI, everybody, in hopes someone would come in and give them a hand.”
Stonecoat nodded. “And we're it?”
“Sanger here put out a nationwide alert on anything resembling Mootry,” grumbled Lawrence.
Lucas countered with, “I'd have thought the detectives on the case would've done that.”
“No, they hadn't got round to it, it appears!” bellowed Bryce, his darting eyes finding Lucas.